Sam's Town
by Stephane Richer
Summary: I've got this sentimental heart that beats but I don't really mind that it's starting to get to me.


Sam's Town

Disclaimer: I don't own the song "Sam's Town" by the Killers or the manga _Bleach_ by Tite Kubo._  
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In the beginning, it was just them, in the dirty streets staring one another in the eye suspiciously. It was just the two of them, small but already hardened and wise beyond their years because they had to be. They would dart around the streets with their friends, cause a diversion and steal food or water or cloth to make clothes or bedding, fit neatly between the boards and wriggle into the abandoned shacks filled with rats and snakes (but hey, beggars couldn't be choosers and they were beggars by every definition, even though they were proud). They had their other friends, their comrades, who were part of their makeshift little family, too, but they were the masterminds.

And in the end, it was just them, by the water as the polluted river flowed and they had grown up but were still every bit as dirty and lonely and hopeless as ever. They were more hardened and cynical and less playful but they were still the same two hungry kids, hungry for something that hung in the air just beyond their reach as they leaped, higher and higher each day.

And that wasn't really the end, because so many years later here they were, still together, still kind of lonely, dirt and blood on their faces, fighting someone else's war instead of their own. They'd been to hell and back together, so many times, in so many ways (of course, never to literal hell because nobody went there) and were still as close as always.

Well, no, closer.

Because one day someone (they always argued over which one it was, stubborn to the end) said "fuck it" (it was probably both of them at once, or near enough not to make a difference) and leaned over and kissed the other one and that was kind of that.

Everyone knew they were going to end up together, anyway. To some it seemed inevitable.

They, of course, argued against it. Nothing was inevitable, especially not this. Right and perfect and wonderful, hell yes, but not inevitable.

There were a million other paths they each could have chosen, paths that would permanently separate them or at least delay their reunion for quite some time. But somehow, they just kept interweaving, again and again, tightly like DNA. Like the dirty river meeting the bank, the tide swaying up against it.

She ran her fingers through his crimson hair, tracing his jagged hairline with her other hand. Her hands moved steadily downward and she began pinching his collarbones. He sighed in pleasure and her lips caught his in a kiss, partially to shut him up. He ran his tongue along her teeth and she squirmed, trying to take back control. The pace of her hands rapidly increased as she moved them down under his robe and he realized he was not using his hands at the other hand, her hands always felt so good and he didn't want to think or do anything right now so he just moaned and leaned into her, and he felt her smirk against him.

She was like rain; he couldn't catch her in his hands, could only feel her against him and she came and went at will. When she wasn't there it was like he was in some kind of drought and damn, she was more than refreshing on a hot day. That couldn't really encompass her, couldn't even start.

She was everything, good and bad, about him.

He moved inside her and ohh yeahh, her eyes rolled back and she couldn't hold back the unintelligible noise from ripping out of her and each time with him was better than the last. She never got tired of him, of anything about him.

He was solid, the ground beneath her feet, would never let her down or let her go. Even when she wasn't thinking about him, he was there in her mind.

Damn. She didn't know if she wanted him there all the time, but who was she kidding? She needed him the way he needed her, the way the rain bounced off the ground in some kind of rhythmical pace.

Her body was so much smaller than his but fit so perfectly. It made him wonder if he was imagining this sometimes, if he'd convinced himself he was smaller or she was bigger or if he'd somehow managed to warp reality so that it had actually happened, but then they stood up and she didn't reach his shoulder and she held him closer and it felt the same even though they were kind of a mismatch.

They'd fight occasionally; he'd get caught in the heat of the moment and wouldn't give up and she'd outwit him and they'd both be angry for a while but then it wasn't really worth it and they both understood why they differed in opinion and sometimes they even convinced one another to change their minds, but mostly they just moved past it because time was wasting. And they could move onto the next argument, which would be just as fun. Making up was fun, too.

The light bulb flickered off. Shit. He had meant to replace it; it had been getting dimmer every day. She found his face with her hands, kissed him in the dark. She guided his hands over her body, traced the tattoos on his back from memory, got them all right. His fingers tapered off where her hair grew narrow at the end, just below her chin. He covered her jawline with kisses, each one increasing in intensity. He felt like he was drunk with her love, hopelessly incurable. He felt her heartbeat reverberate against his own chest, and damn, they were almost in sync. But before he could think too hard, she pressed her body harder against him and he almost forgot how to move.


End file.
